Alone
by CKTG
Summary: John visits his dead friend in the graveyard. Post-Reichenbach Fall. No slash.


Alone

**Summary: **John visits his dead friend in the graveyard. Post-Reichenbach Fall. Very mild spoliers. No slash.

**I couldn't get this idea out of my head, so I wrote it today, and it made me feel very sad. I never cry during movies, but I did during Sherlock's note. He's so brave. And I miss the series already, so writing about it made me feel a little better. This may be a one-shot, but I could draw it out if people want me to.**

**Disclaimer: John and Sherlock are perhaps one of the greatest friendships invented in the world. Sadly enough, I don't own the show. **

* * *

"Hey, it's me again."

Frigid rain drops splashed onto John's coat, dampening it to be more receptive to cold. They watered his blonde hair, plastering it to his skull, and trickled down the side of his cheeks, running in the creases of his tired eyes. Rain dribbled down John's chin and joined the collection of freezing water down into his sweater. His shoes squelched in the muddy ground, leaving noticeable footprints that lead to an onyx gravestone. John couldn't even look at the name right now, so he settled with looking at the drowned petunias lying against the slab.

"You're probably tired of me, coming here every six months," John continued, his voice no more than a murmur. The patter of rain nearly obscured John's words from his own ears. He couldn't bring himself to speak any louder; it wasn't as if Sherlock could hear him. Sherlock was dead, six feet underneath John's worn shoes. John shook the thought from his head and gave a small smile. "You'd probably yell at me, saying it's pointless to visit a dead man. It's a sentimental thing, Sherlock. People often do these things to people they miss."

John stuck his frozen hands into his pockets and tilted his head toward the sky, swallowing over the burning lump in his throat and closing his eyes against the freezing water. "Yeah, that's right, I miss you, you idiot." John allowed a small, hollow chuckle and tightened his grip on his walking stick. "You were—are—my best friend. Why wouldn't I visit you on the anniversary of your—?"

John swallowed. "Of your death," he said, swiping at his eyes. He cleared his throat. "Three years, Sherlock," he said in his normal voice, scuffing his shoes through the somewhat loose soil. "It's been three years exactly, and I still can't get over you being gone." Another dry chuckle wormed its way out of his mouth. "Listen to me: I sound like some gay lover. People will really talk, now."

_They do little else_, John heard in his head, his mind supplying Sherlock's voice. John smiled at the thought and stared at the headstone, his mind clear all but for the sounds of rain hitting the stone slabs of nearby graves and the leaves of the trees, which were green and full of life. It just seemed _wrong _for that little life to be there in a cemetery, where everything of importance was rotting away.

"I guess I'm here to tell you what's been going on in your absence," John began. He limped closer to the grave until he was within touching distance from Sherlock's headstone. "Well, I've given up on dating," John said, smiling at the thought of the girls he had tried to get along with. "It's just not the same without you there to ruin my date. I used to think it annoying… especially that time when you insisted on being our waiter. How you got into the restaurant without my knowledge (or the manager's knowledge, now that I think about it) is beyond me. But, believe it or not, I miss it, you competing for my attention. You should have known I'd never abandon you, Sherlock. I just like female companionship every once in a while."

A warm trail of water intermingled with the freezing dampness on his cheek. "You wouldn't like those girls, anyway. You would say they were dull. And they were, Sherlock. They were very boring. Mundane."

He cleared his throat again and sniffed. "A funny thing happened the other day: Lestrade gave me a call. He wants me to help him with a few cases." A rare venom entered his voice, chasing away the cold. "The bastard. I told him where he could stuff his phone and hung up. I'm done helping those back-stabbers. Besides… until Anderson and Donovan are fired, I'm not going to the MET for anything."

John chuckled again, and he wondered not for the first time if he was stable; he was in a cemetery, after all. "Oh, they've apologized. I've told you this before. It was not long after you jumped that they came to me and said they believed in you." John felt his expression become stony and he clenched the fist not attached to his walking stick. "I just told them it was a little too late for that and slammed the door in their faces. They deserve it." His voice trailed off and he looked to the tree hanging over Sherlock's gravestone. "They deserve it."

John shook his head and whispered, "It's too quiet in the flat, Sherlock. I keep waking up, straining my ears for the sound of your violin, or a small explosion in the kitchen, or a few gunshots into the wall when you finally found my gun again. And now they're gone, just like you." His voice finally broke, and John coughed into his fist to hide it, though there was no one in the cemetery except for him. Him and a bunch of dead people. "Don't know why I haven't left yet," John admitted hoarsely. "I don't really want to. My therapist said that I should, that it's not healthy for me, but I told her to shove it as well."

"Work is tedious," John said once his voice cleared up enough for him to talk. He re-gripped his cane, which had become slick with the freezing rain. "It is very boring, but it pays well enough to keep the flat, and it keeps me busy for a while, even if I'm not allowed to partake in surgery anymore." John smiled. "The tremor in my hand came back. It's not steady enough for precise work like that."

John sighed and checked his phone. He had been there for over an hour, and he didn't have much time left before he had to leave. Time was too short. "Sorry about that," John said, apologizing for his rudeness, holding up his phone before slipping it back into his pocket. "I'm on a bit of a tight schedule… I'm meeting Harry today. She's been a bit ill and moody ever since she stopped drinking, but the doctor—not me—said it was either that or her liver would fail. She needs some help, even if it's just to boss me around and snap at me for breathing too hard. Normally, I wouldn't bother, but I don't want another person dying on me. Truly, I'm alone. My alcoholic sister is the only person I have left. Mrs. Hudson is alright, but she's not my family, and she's not my best friend—my brother."

John limped forward and tapped the headstone affectionately with his free hand. "I guess I'll see you later, buddy." He turned and left the site, his cane sinking into the softened soil and slipping in his grip from the freezing rain that also dampened his cheeks. The cold was coming back, stinging his ears and tightening his left shoulder. His leg was also starting to hurt more, but he had things to do. He weaved his way through the headstones, not noticing a shifting shadow near Sherlock's grave in his leave.


End file.
